replied. “If I put him on any other boat, the men’ll kill him.”
Now the opportunity’s all mine, Colin thought.
Jack gathered the men into a circle. He linked arms with Colin on one side and Andrew on the other.
One by one, the others locked arms, too.
“We are a chain,” Jack said. “We must stay together, in each other’s sight, at all costs. We’re loaded beyond any reasonable standards. Exercise extreme caution. If we separate — if one boat is damaged — our return voyage is doomed. With God’s help, we’ll find Walden soon. I believe that with all my soul.”
Silence greeted the speech, but no words were needed. In glances and facial tics, posture and movement, the men spoke volumes. Despair for the unreasonable, hope for the impossible.
The boats now lay half in the water. Colin committed the personnel of each to memory. The dogs were already in: Ireni, Maria, and Stavros in the Horace Putney; Kalliope, Fotis, and Martha in the Iphigenia; Demosthenes, Socrates, and Yiorgos in the Samuel Breen; and Kristina, Iosif, Nikola, and Panagiotis in the Raina.
Into the Iphigenia climbed Rivera, Riesman, Talmadge, Windham, O’Malley, Flummerfelt, Ruppenthal, Ruskey.
The Samuel Breen : Siegal, Nesbit, Petard, Brillman, Stimson, Bailey, Hayes.
The Raina : Barth, Andrew, Montfort, Kosta, Lombardo, Oppenheim, Robert, and Nigel.
Some would be standing — there was no way to prevent that. The dogs would have to lie on the ballast and in men’s laps. And Father had made it clear that the personnel should switch boats regularly at each stop along the coast.
Colin gave the Horace Putney’s stern a hard push until it was afloat, then jumped in himself.
The boat rocked on a strong, choppy current. The brash ice billowed against the hull, making a noise like crunching gravel. Cranston took the tiller as Colin and Jack used oars to push against the larger blocks of ice, guiding the boat northeast, toward a break near the horizon.
“Oh, I believe I am getting sick,” Philip moaned.
The dogs whined, moving around in circles. Colin was jammed against the starboard hull and had poor leverage.
The boat was uncomfortable. Badly balanced. Slow.
And thrilling.
The land had not been kind. The sea was a friend; the sea had gotten them here alive, and now perhaps it would deliver them.
The current pulled the boats steadily northwest, aided by a sharp crosswind. They were headed for a field of freshly calved icebergs, about three-quarters of a mile away.
“Set the sails!” Father called out.
Kennedy and Mansfield scrambled to unlash the sail and lower the boom. “Ready about!” Kennedy cried, pulling the sheet.
The Iphigenia was directly behind them. The Raina and the Samuel Breen had drifted west and were tacking to catch up.
“It doesn’t look like we’re getting away from those bergs!” Cranston shouted.
“The bergs are moving, too,” Jack replied.
“Shouldn’t they be moving the other way?” Kennedy asked.
“Must be some kind of crosscurrent,” Mansfield said. “Watch for a strong riptide — or whirlpool.”
A cloud cover had developed in the south, over the Antarctic plain. It loomed behind the other three boats, growing fast.
“Jibe to the east and be prepared to lower sails!” Father shouted.
The wind was at their backs, forcing them to zigzag in order to catch a good crosswind. For a good forty-five minutes, Colin watched the cloud gradually turn black. It swallowed the Raina and Samuel Breen first, then quickly engulfed the Iphigenia.
“Bring her around and heave to! On the double!” Jack commanded. “READY ABOUT.”
Philip ducked under the forward decking. Mansfield and Kennedy released the sheet and let the boom swing again.
They trimmed the sail and brought the Horace Putney about so that its bow faced into the wind. Again they let the sheet loose and the sail went slack. As the two men secured the sail, Sanders kept a firm grip on the rudder, making sure the boat
Now the opportunity’s all mine, Colin thought.
Jack gathered the men into a circle. He linked arms with Colin on one side and Andrew on the other.
One by one, the others locked arms, too.
“We are a chain,” Jack said. “We must stay together, in each other’s sight, at all costs. We’re loaded beyond any reasonable standards. Exercise extreme caution. If we separate — if one boat is damaged — our return voyage is doomed. With God’s help, we’ll find Walden soon. I believe that with all my soul.”
Silence greeted the speech, but no words were needed. In glances and facial tics, posture and movement, the men spoke volumes. Despair for the unreasonable, hope for the impossible.
The boats now lay half in the water. Colin committed the personnel of each to memory. The dogs were already in: Ireni, Maria, and Stavros in the Horace Putney; Kalliope, Fotis, and Martha in the Iphigenia; Demosthenes, Socrates, and Yiorgos in the Samuel Breen; and Kristina, Iosif, Nikola, and Panagiotis in the Raina.
Into the Iphigenia climbed Rivera, Riesman, Talmadge, Windham, O’Malley, Flummerfelt, Ruppenthal, Ruskey.
The Samuel Breen : Siegal, Nesbit, Petard, Brillman, Stimson, Bailey, Hayes.
The Raina : Barth, Andrew, Montfort, Kosta, Lombardo, Oppenheim, Robert, and Nigel.
Some would be standing — there was no way to prevent that. The dogs would have to lie on the ballast and in men’s laps. And Father had made it clear that the personnel should switch boats regularly at each stop along the coast.
Colin gave the Horace Putney’s stern a hard push until it was afloat, then jumped in himself.
The boat rocked on a strong, choppy current. The brash ice billowed against the hull, making a noise like crunching gravel. Cranston took the tiller as Colin and Jack used oars to push against the larger blocks of ice, guiding the boat northeast, toward a break near the horizon.
“Oh, I believe I am getting sick,” Philip moaned.
The dogs whined, moving around in circles. Colin was jammed against the starboard hull and had poor leverage.
The boat was uncomfortable. Badly balanced. Slow.
And thrilling.
The land had not been kind. The sea was a friend; the sea had gotten them here alive, and now perhaps it would deliver them.
The current pulled the boats steadily northwest, aided by a sharp crosswind. They were headed for a field of freshly calved icebergs, about three-quarters of a mile away.
“Set the sails!” Father called out.
Kennedy and Mansfield scrambled to unlash the sail and lower the boom. “Ready about!” Kennedy cried, pulling the sheet.
The Iphigenia was directly behind them. The Raina and the Samuel Breen had drifted west and were tacking to catch up.
“It doesn’t look like we’re getting away from those bergs!” Cranston shouted.
“The bergs are moving, too,” Jack replied.
“Shouldn’t they be moving the other way?” Kennedy asked.
“Must be some kind of crosscurrent,” Mansfield said. “Watch for a strong riptide — or whirlpool.”
A cloud cover had developed in the south, over the Antarctic plain. It loomed behind the other three boats, growing fast.
“Jibe to the east and be prepared to lower sails!” Father shouted.
The wind was at their backs, forcing them to zigzag in order to catch a good crosswind. For a good forty-five minutes, Colin watched the cloud gradually turn black. It swallowed the Raina and Samuel Breen first, then quickly engulfed the Iphigenia.
“Bring her around and heave to! On the double!” Jack commanded. “READY ABOUT.”
Philip ducked under the forward decking. Mansfield and Kennedy released the sheet and let the boom swing again.
They trimmed the sail and brought the Horace Putney about so that its bow faced into the wind. Again they let the sheet loose and the sail went slack. As the two men secured the sail, Sanders kept a firm grip on the rudder, making sure the boat
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